I feel as though I have lost him. Which is silly, because I obviously have. He is gone and it will be a long time until I see him again. But I am afraid that when that time comes, he will not be waiting. He has already moved on, found somone new to make the endless time of eternity pass by.
I consider that perhaps it is my own fault. After all, I did drop my protestations eventually, I accepted a gesture of closeness and comfort from another. I do not love her, though, not how she deserves to be loved. Not how I love him.
Nothing compares to how I have loved him.
The thought of our reunion got me through the worst of my mourning. (That and dangerous tasks that I accepted willingly on the chance that I'd be killed on duty and join him — them, but mostly him — for the rest of our afterlives.
Was it foolish of me? To expect that a man like him could truly sit still and wait for me?
I feel like a fool, certainly. And what's worse is that I know that I will, when my time comes, just sit back and watch him as he shares his heart, his soul, with another. I won't force myself back into his world. He can take his new love and our once-mutual friends and I will sit and grieve anew and be the emotional martyr I've always been destined to be.
I don't take dangerous missions now. It causes a few problems, because I have skills sorely needed by our weakened side, but everyone seems to take it in stride. Maybe they think I'm protecting myself for her sake. That's fine — and on some level it's true. I don't want to go before I can tel her the truth (too gay
), because I don't want her mourning something that isn't real. (Though I can't imagine it will be too big of a surprise to her. Surely her parents have expressed some surprise in our arrangement?)
Mostly, though, I want to spare myself the heartache for as long as possible. I'm a disgrace to my house, but that house has too many memories anyway. Too many nights curled up in front of the fireplace, easily sliding apart when someone else came in the room. I find myself wishing we'd been more bold, less cautious back then. Though, I say "we" but it was really my urging that kept us quiet. He was already the rebel — one more reason for people to talk about him wouldn't have hurt. But I grew up listening to relations speak in villanous tones about people like me, and I grew up learning to keep a great & terrible secret. It's been only natural to keep this quiet as well.
But maybe that was the downfall, of us, of everything. If I hadn't been as secretive, maybe things wouldn't have gone the way that they did. Maybe he would have trusted me. Maybe everything wouldn't have fallen apart, maybe he would still be here today, we'd still be together.
Maybe he would have left me anyway. Maybe I was never more than a teenage fling, another way to rebel against everything(one) that he hated. Oh I don't doubt that he loved me, in his way. But we were both young, and it's more than likely that his love was only friendship, with a dash of relief that we had something important in comon. (I have never doubted his enjoyment of sex with a man, with me.)
That would all be fine. More than fine, really. We were lucky to have someone so trustworthy at that age. I just wish I hadn't mucked things up by never getting over him. Not for not hating him, but simply for never letting my love cool. For jumping back into things as soon as we were both ready.
I never thought of him as an "ex". I think that's what's making it so hard. We never ended, either time. So he's still very much MINE, and the thought of him with anyone else is heartbreaking.
I take it out on myself at the moon. The people who call me their friend worry for me. I have never scarred, but I now take much longer to recover; it's often nearly the last quarter before I am quite myself again. (I also find that, when I have wolfsbane to temper me, I sleep in front of the door to make sure it stays shut. The wolf doesn't know that his big, black packmate is never coming back — just that he doesn't want him around anymore.) I let the wolf express my jealousy, and in return I am able to have marginally satisfying sex with a woman who loves me for all the wrong reason but at least has an adventurous spirit and isn't offended or bothered when I ask her to use the strap-on on me or when I need something tighter and rougher than her cunt for one night. I try to keep those requests, especially the latter, to the week before the moon, just to give both of us another explanation that doesn't point to the fact that I find breasts cumbersome udders, generally speaking.
Mostly I'm just grateful she hasn't asked for children.
Days before the moon I want to run. I want to leave her behind with a brief note of apology ("Sorry, just too gay, off to get lost in some big city to find a better replacement for the man who was never really my ex. Love to your mum and dad.")
I imagine myself somewhere where no one knows me at all. I've often fancied living in the States for awhile, though there's just too much country to pick one place to settle, not right away. I wouldn't mind the continent, but the governments there are very harsh about letting in Dark Creatures.
When the moon has just passed, as it is now, I am open and sore, both physically and emotionally. But this too shall pass. I will find joys in life once more.
I have to, since the joy I expected in the afterlife has been taken from me. Right now is all I have.